


The Matchbreaker

by oolong_bandit



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Original Work
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Banter, Betrayal, But Mostly Hurt, Character Death, Death, Disaster Lesbians, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, F/M, Family, Fantasy, Friends to Enemies, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Lovers To Enemies, Pining, Pirates, Politics, Secret Identity, Secrets, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Violence, court intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-22 03:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30032322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oolong_bandit/pseuds/oolong_bandit
Summary: Every empire has its secrets.A tale set in the eastern lands of Essos.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started and finished writing this in 2018. When I wrote the last chapter, I thought I was done with this story. Alas, it wasn’t done with me, and the characters continue to live in my head rent free. I’m rewriting the whole thing now, but I’ve decided to post the original story here, in its entirety, at least until I'm done with the new version.

Lord Noroi Dao the Honorable decided that before he murdered his wife, he’d make her suffer. Out of all things, all the possible grievances she could have tormented him with, it was this. Running away, with a handmaiden of all things. How long had they carried on, under his own roof? He would be mortified if he wasn’t already consumed with rage. She’d tried to leave _him_ , a soul second in power only to the Emperor, for a _servant_. But Hong Hua had been dead for years, likely crushed under a mountain of halite deep within Eastern salt mines he’d sold her off to. And now, after they’d failed—yet again—to produce an heir, the only escape left for his wife was death. Noroi lifted the ceremonial family blade from where it hung on the wall.

“Please.” Lady Khutulun grasped desperately at the edge of Noroi’s silk robe. “My love—”

“ _My love_ ,” Noroi echoed, wrenching her thin fingers away and flinging her to the ground. “You were never mine, Khutulun.” He bent over her and pressed the honed edge of the sword against her hands. “Don’t fret. You’ll see Hong Hua soon. But I can’t let you keep these.” 

Noroi’s gentle smile was poisoned honey. The cold steel of his blade lay flat against her knuckles, a promise of the pain to come. She knew what the Moon Sages said—a woman with all her fingers could crawl her way back from the depths of Yomi, the Spirit World.

“Heaven above,” Khutulun spat out a prayer, one she feared would fall upon deaf ears. “I will be avenged.”

A scream caught in her throat as crimson spray hit the floor, staining the dyed straw mats a deeper shade of red. Khutulun slumped over, her heart beating a desperate staccato against her ribcage. A wet gurgle crawled its way out of her husband’s mouth as he toppled onto the floor beside her. His hands flew to his throat and cocooned the exposed flesh of his neck, as if attempting to coax the bloody ruin back together. Scarlet froth bubbled up over his tongue as he struggled in vain to form his final words. His eyes met hers, wide with not shock, rage, or agony, but something she could not name. Something dangerously close to pity. And then Lord Noroi Dao, the Golden Blade and the Traitor’s Scourge, breathed his last. 

A shadow stood over him, each gloved hand clutching a curved blade. The figure emerged from the swirling darkness of the chamber, each silent step sliding deliberately with the weave of the floor mats.

“You’re...you’re a Matchbreaker,” Khutulun whispered. “My father… He sent you?”

“Yes, and yes. Hand me that candle.”

Khutulun scrambled to her feet, hands shaking as they grasped the candle-holder. The molten wax at the bottom of the dish rippled as she carried it over, her fingers no longer obeying her. The Matchbreaker snatched the candle out of her hands in a single smooth motion, and Khutulun jerked back, as if any contact between them would burn her. The Matchbreaker dripped wax over Noroi’s cold lips, forever sealing them so his doomed spirit would never leave the chamber, and could therefore never seek revenge against the soul who ordered his death.

“Aren’t...Aren’t you part of a coven of sworn Sisters?” Khutulun asked, her voice unsteady. “Are you actually related? Or—”

“Be quiet,” hissed the Matchbreaker, before forcing her sharp expression to soften. “You can return home now, Khutulun. Or you can remain here and they’ll hang you from one of your trees. I personally do not care for such fruit.”

Khutulun felt bitterness slide down her throat and into her knotted stomach. This did not feel like freedom.

“If I go, they’ll follow.”

“Oh?” The Matchbreaker’s mouth curved into a crude mockery of a smile as she held out a hand. “But you were never here.”


	2. Chapter 2

The inn lay lopsided on the edge of the road, close enough to the nearby village for convenience and far enough away for relative privacy. The building resembled a toad that had fallen into a jar of rice wine, its sagging gray form supported by a crumbling excuse for a stable. A pathetic tree slouched in the corner, its gnarled roots framed by clumps of dung. Fading green tiles from the clay roof lay shattered about the muddy courtyard, lying in wait for an unsuspecting foot. 

Leaf-wrapped dinner in hand, the Matchbreaker made her way through the reeking dining hall and up the uneven, splintered steps to the second floor. The drunken laughter of the women and men falling over themselves behind her chased her up the staircase and towards her awaiting bedroll. Once within her room, she collapsed onto the battered bedding; the cot provided by the inn smelled as if something had crawled inside and died within its ancient straw mattress. 

_Given the state of the place, something probably has_ , the Matchbreaker thought. 

She had set up her bedroll at one end of the room; the bed had been shoved unceremoniously into the farthest corner. 

_Heaven above_ , the Matchbreaker groaned inwardly, rubbing at her aching forehead. Tomorrow she’d have to report back to Khutulun’s doting father. The man had been dispatching servants to Sanmani Temple for the past three months. She’d had to fend off her more irritated sworn Sisters, who’d planned on sending the nobleman back a few heads as a stronger message. Apparently their previous replies—threats, really—had not been enough.

She ran her fingers over the engraved gold band at her wrist. Khutulun had given it to her as a parting gift, informing her it was once her mother’s. The Matchbreaker had refused to accept something that had belonged to the formidable Xin Sang, but Khutulun had insisted. The bracelet, after all, had been given to her a day after her birthday, which her absent mother had forgotten. At that, the Matchbreaker had shut her mouth and pocketed the trinket.

Her body begged for food and sleep, but she had work to do. The Matchbreaker rolled to her feet with a sigh and began to inspect the chamber in depth, as was her nightly routine. The room was sparse, devoid of welcoming comforts but also of anywhere that could conceal an enemy. The rice paper windows and the sliding door possessed no locks, but it would take great skill to climb up to the former, and the Matchbreaker was the lightest of sleepers. Anyone with designs on her life would have to fly through the corridor if they wanted to catch her unawares.

Satisfied, she settled onto her bedroll and began to unwrap the pandan leaf blanketing her evening meal of _zongzi_ dumplings. Munching through a handful of sticky rice, she leaned back onto the thin wall. As soon as she collected her payment, she could return home. 

_Home_. Her eyes fluttered closed, the thought twisting and turning in her gut. The word itself was a hand clenched around her throat. The temple she lived in now was not her first, and thinking of anything or anyone from the time before she devoted herself to the deadly arts made her want to retch. The Moon Sages were charlatans; time had not closed the wounds carved open by her fathers’ deaths. It had only forced her to learn to live with the pain of their loss. The Matchbreaker grimaced, no longer hungry.

 _Footsteps_. Running clumsily along the side of the corridor, as if needing the cracked walls for support. As if already wounded. The Matchbreaker folded up the remnants of her dinner and rose to her feet. She stretched her tired limbs and worked the fatigue from her feet. She’d make this quick. She’d roll the body up in the threadbare covers on the inn’s bed and toss it out the window. Then she’d head back out the front door as if nothing had happened and be on her merry way. She stifled a yawn. It seemed that there truly was no rest for the wicked.

The screen door slid open with a screech, and the muddy toe of a boot peeked through the gap. Before the intruder could take a second step inside, the Matchbreaker had a knife against his throat. A moment’s glance told her he was hardly a threat. The innkeeper had all but robbed her for the most secluded room in her establishment, and yet, here this imbecile was, inviting himself in like he was a prince and interrupting her sleep. Heaven alone could help him now.

“You’re going to tell me your name, who sent you, and why,” she hissed. 

“I—”

“And you’re going to think _very_ carefully about the answers,” the Matchbreaker cut him off with a snarl, shoving him against the wall. The intruder raised his hands in surrender, a practically useless gesture. “I’ve already exceeded the limits of my patience for this month.”

“But today is the first in the Month of the Jade Lotus.”

“How perceptive.” 

The blade pressed against the intruder’s sun-bronzed skin. He swallowed a gulp of air. 

“Forgive me. I didn’t realize this room was, ah, occupied. I—I just needed somewhere to hide.”

“From whom, exactly?” The Matchbreaker’s tone was menacingly quiet. Her viper’s grip on him tightened. “You’re a pitiful liar—”

Three black-robed figures burst through the sliding rice-paper screen doors and brandished gleaming swords.

“From _them_ ,” ground out the intruder as they lunged at the Matchbreaker.

She grabbed the boy’s collar and flung him behind her, simultaneously ramming a knee between the first assailant’s legs. The assassin doubled over from the blow. She drove her dagger into the soft spot between his jawbone and ear as he folded, wheezing. The second attacker, weilding a _naginata_ , rushed her. Or attempted to, at least. The Matchbreaker sidestepped the blade without even looking at it. As the woman slid past her, carried by her own momentum, the Matchbreaker caught her in the back with a sharp, quick jab between the ribs. The last man flinched, carving his own fate into Heaven’s door. 

“Please,” the assassin forced out. “You don’t know—”

“Oh, but I _do_ ,” snapped the Matchbreaker, leaping neatly over his fallen comrade towards him. “I know I won’t sleep tonight. I know you will. _Forever_.”

The boy at her feet gave a startled laugh. The Matchbreaker whipped around with a glare that could pierce armor, and his mouth snapped shut. She turned back to the remaining assassin.

“He’s the—” the man began, only to be cut off by a knife to the neck.

The Matchbreaker caught him as he fell, and tossed him onto the bed. She stalked towards her first visitor. Immediately, he scrambled backwards.

“I…I owe you my life,” whispered the intruder, his voice steeped in awe. 

“I want nothing from you,” the Matchbreaker snapped, angling her knife at him. “You’ve jeopardized everything, you—”

The intruder’s eyes rolled up into his head as he crumpled to his knees, an arrow now protruding from his shoulder. The Matchbreaker hadn’t noticed the third assassin hidden in the darkness behind her. Pivoting on her heel, she flung her knife towards the shadowy figure crouched at the open window. The blade landed in the woman’s eye socket with a wet thud. She fell to her knees, and then tumbled off the stable roof and into the courtyard.

Someone screeched. 

“Heavenly arse,” the Matchbreaker hissed, flying over to the window. 

Already a swaying flock of inebriated patrons had gathered, taking turns pointing at the broken body and cackling. Eventually someone would sober up and call over the local magistrate, and then they’d throw her in some stinking prison, and then she’d rot until the Master Matchbreaker came to rescue her, and then she’d never hear the end of it. She looked back towards the boy, and then back at the courtyard again. The intruder’s wound was hardly fatal, but he _was_ losing a concerning quantity of blood. The Matchbreaker cursed again. 

Spewing profanity didn’t make her feel better. She had only a few hours before the other patrons were clear-headed enough to fetch the authorities. Struggling not to scream, the Matchbreaker looped her arms underneath the stranger’s, and pulled him onto her bedroll.


	3. Chapter 3

“Who are you?” 

The intruder sat up, pressing a shaking hand to his bandaged wound. Or at least he tried to. His arms were bound behind him with a rough strip of cloth. His shoulder roared with pain at the attempt. The arrow had struck so close to his neck. A hand’s breadth upwards and he’d be dead. He dragged in a soft, shuddering breath.

“I won’t ask again, boy.”

The intruder’s gaze rose to meet the Matchbreaker’s. Her blood was not the Empire’s alone. She had the round moon face and almond eyes of Tsuingsha, with the coppery umber complexion of faraway Oro. And she looked like she’d only just crawled from the cocoon of childhood.

“I’m definitely older than you.” The intruder sassed, almost reflexively. Then the Matchbreaker reached for her knife. “Mukuta. I’m Mukata,” he gulped, eyes trained on her blade.

The Empire’s most common name. 

“So no one, then,” the Matchbreaker snapped, rising to her feet. “I went through your things, anyway.” She knelt behind him and sliced through the bindings. “You were unconscious for nearly an entire day. Over a minor wound, at that. I quite literally know children with better endurance than you. Now that you’re done wasting my very precious time, get out.”

He winced, rubbing at his sore wrists. An arrow to the shoulder hardly seemed like a minor wound. The Matchbreaker shoved his worn satchel into his chest. He caught her arm as she did. He half-expected her to wrench her wrist from his grip and backhand him. Instead, she tilted her head at him, as if daring him into action. Her mouth was severe, but there was something curious in her eyes.

“A fine band.” Mukuta touched his fingers to engraved gold around her wrist. “A gift?”

“I don’t see how my belongings are any concern of yours.” With a sharp intake of breath, the Matchbreaker yanked her hand away. She crossed the room and began to pack her things, shoving stray objects into her bag with a sort of violence that seemed almost personal. Mukuta wobbled to his feet.

“You are a concern of mine. All of you, including strange, possibly cursed trinkets. I meant it, you know,” Mukuta murmured, voice low. His tone was demure, but his words were anything but. “I owe you my life, a debt I mean to repay in full.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” The Matchbreaker’s grin was mocking. “Get out. I don’t want your life.”

Mukuta straightened, hands on his hips. He eyed a rust-red streak of drying blood arcing across the paneled floor. “I’ll be cursed to wander the depths of Yomi forever if I leave you now.” He took a step towards her, and found himself face down in the dirt-smeared mats outside the room half a breath later. 

“Forever’s a long time. You’d better start wandering, then.” The Matchbreaker gave him an exasperated look. “And bring a cloak. I hear the Spirit World is freezing.”

“I’ll find you again, stranger,” said Mukuta, spitting out a mouthful of dust and rising shakily from the hallway floor. He swiped his tongue over the roof of his mouth, tasting the metallic tang of blood. “Until then, may Heaven look down fondly upon—” 

The screen doors slammed shut, almost slicing his nose clean off.


	4. Chapter 4

Lord Yangchen offered the Matchbreaker a steaming cup of tea. She took the gilded porcelain with murmured thanks, carefully regarding the nobleman before her. He was tall, a slender stem of a body crowned with a ruddy blossom for a head. The Matchbreaker disguised a snort of laughter with a cough. It seemed like he could melt right into the cherry blossoms painted into the delicate bamboo screen behind him. He looked as if she could crush him in her fist.

“Thank you for cleaning up after me, back in Shuiji,” she said.

“It was nothing.” Yangchen waved a dismissive hand. “You’re lucky I’m on such good terms with the local magistrate. I wonder why you didn’t just run off, though. What kept you?”

“Some pathetic peasant boy.” The Matchbreaker shrugged, then sighed. “Where’s your liege lady?”

“Xin Sang sends her regrets,” said Yangchen, taking a slow sip of tea. “My wife is tangled up in faraway affairs. As always.” It was well known that Lady Xin Sang was the Empire’s greatest ambassador, and probably its worst mother. 

“Shame.” The Matchbreaker peered down at the swirl of gold-green within her cup before placing it on the oiled table before her. She glanced up with a lopsided grin. “I’d probably prefer her company. Perhaps one day she’ll grace me with it.”

She looked about the chamber. Khutulun’s parents lived in relative simplicity, considering the vast wealth she knew they commanded. But there was a refined edge to the modest beauty, one that could only be acquired through coin. The lush gardens just outside were dotted with scented lanterns that threaded the air with notes of imported incense. The heady aroma of jasmine and something deliciously foreign tempted the Matchbreaker towards sleep, and she struggled not to slump forward onto the table. The cushion under her, though unadorned, was the softest silk she’d ever felt. She wondered if Yangchen would notice if she stuffed it under her robes and took it with her.

“They say Lord Noroi was slain with one of his own swords,” Yangchen said finally, sitting back in his gilded chair. He regarded the Matchbreaker with tired eyes. “Have you heard the whispers?”

This was routine. 

“Oh, yes. The man smoked so much Dragon’s Tooth he went half-mad.” She leaned forward. “He cut down everyone in sight. And after opening up Lord Noroi’s neck and tossing him into the moat, he went after Lady Khutulun. But she was nowhere to be found.” The Matchbreaker shrugged. “Apparently, she never left Aixing province. Or so I hear. In any case, it’s all very tragic.”

“Indeed.” Yangchen’s eyes swam with gratitude. He placed a dark wooden box before her. “Thank you.”

“For what? I’m only a messenger.” 

“That may be so, but honesty is as rare and twice as precious as gold.”

The Matchbreaker lifted the box’s lacquered lid and examined the golden boat-shaped ingots stacked within. “This is twice what we agreed upon.”

“For the...information. You were paid to protect it, but you delivered it to me too—”

“That is thanks enough. I am grateful for your hospitality, my lord,” the Matchbreaker cut him off with a forced smile before lifting the tea to her lips. “Heaven listens.”

“I forget myself sometimes.” Yangchen rose to his feet. “I’m still recovering from the shock of losing my favorite son-in-law.”

“My deepest condolences. Please extend them to Lady Xin Sang.” The Matchbreaker smiled and slid the box into her satchel. “If I may take my leave—” 

“You may,” said Yangchen. “But I have a final request. An offer.”

The Matchbreaker’s mouth thinned into a sharp line. 

“I never work for the same family twice, my lord. To do so would put my Sisters in danger.” She stood up, gave a slight bow, and started towards the door. “Besides, I must gain the Master's permission first. You know this.”

Yangchen smoothed out the creases of his purple hanbok dress, fingers brushing over its gold-threaded ginkgo leaves.

“The new Empress’s favored lady-in-waiting has a wife now. My daughter is to replace her when she leaves. I fear...that Noroi’s remaining guards may blame Khutulun for his untimely demise.”

“They will not,” said the Matchbreaker, her voice flat. “What reason would they have to harm her?”

“They know of your kind,” Yangchen shifted. “And they knew their master. Revenge is rarely a straight path. All I ask is that you remain at Khutulun’s side until she’s safe within the palace walls.”

The Matchbreaker turned towards the sliding bamboo door. “Forgive me, my lord. I cannot—”

“If my only child dies, I may be so grief-stricken that Heaven takes my mind. Words may slip from my mouth. I may speak of a woman with sharp blades and a sharper tongue.”

The Matchbreaker froze, hand flat against the smooth wood. “There are many of my kind. You would never find me.”

“But I would find some of your sworn Sisters, at least. They would suffer.”

“I would kill you if they did.”

“War with me will not bring you honor, Matchbreaker. Or joy, or whatever it is your kind seeks. Only blood. But the journey to the palace is a short one, and if my daughter reaches the imperial city unscathed, you will call my southernmost lands your own.” 

It wasn’t the compensation she was concerned with. She pulled her satchel higher over her shoulder with a grimace. The gold felt as if it had tripled in weight. “It is not the Matchbreakers’ way to settle.”

“I would have your lands taken care of, and the profits of the soil sent to Sanmani Temple discreetly.” 

Her head turned and their eyes met, her glare sinking its talons into Yangchen. He had no doubt she’d be the last one standing if Heaven saw fit to turn them against each other. But he loved his daughter more than he feared the woman before him.

“I will mind your daughter,” the Matchbreaker promised, seething. “We’ll rise with the sun.”

Yangchen chuckled politely behind his sleeve. “We need a month, at the very least, to prepare her entourage.” He stood. “I will call on you.”

“ _Fine_ ,” snapped the Matchbreaker, each word sodden with barely-concealed resentment. “I’ll return to you then.”


	5. Chapter 5

When Saisei Chaudhary, a farmer from the village of Shuiji, defeated the monstrous Empress Kai Jin, she knew that the scars of her newly-acquired nation would never heal without order. In order to secure peace, Saisei convinced the noble daughters of Tsuingsha to serve her as bodyguards. Together, these women formed the sworn Sisters and became Saisei’s greatest allies. 

After Saisei’s death, her son Ogodei took the throne. For the first nine years of his reign, he followed his mother’s footsteps. Guided by the Sisters, he defended his people against Northern warrior nomads and established diplomatic relations with nations as distant as Oro. But then he changed. It was as if a demon had possessed him in his sleep. He suddenly resented his loyal advisors and guards for their influence, and this bitter grudge sank its claws into his flesh and devoured him. 

Deciding to try his hand at matchmaking, Ogodei married the sworn Sisters off to loyal nobles at the farthest ends of the Empire. When a number of them rose up in protest, he had them ripped apart in the streets. Without their counsel, Ogodei laid waste to the lands Saisei Chaudhary had devoted her life to protecting. And with each passing day, he descended further into madness. Until, finally, one of his mother’s sworn Sisters donned the robes of a nun, slipped into the palace, and disemboweled Ogodei in the royal bathhouses. 

She was caught by the Emperor’s retainers as she attempted to escape the imperial city. In the morning, her flayed corpse hung from the palace gates. When her sworn Sisters received word of her death, they slit the throats of the spouses they’d been shackled to, declared themselves Matchbreakers, and disappeared. 

So said the Master, over and over again, until her students wanted to shove chopsticks up their ears. A grin surfaced on the Matchbreaker’s face as she trudged over a muddy road. Soon she’d be back at Sanmani Temple, swaddled in blankets by her Sisters and reading ancient scrolls by the fire. 

The journey home from Yangchen’s estate was neither a long nor arduous one, but it did involve traversing far more mud-soaked paths than the Matchbreaker cared for. There were scarcely even trees to spice the scenery, only gray-green shrubs and grass to keep her company. And certainly no villages lined the road; no one who valued their own life would ever settle so close to the Matchbreakers’ abode.

Finally, she spotted the silver gleam of metal ahead. Her pace doubling in speed, the Matchbreaker headed towards the iron-plated steps ascending from the hilly grasslands to her home. A deceptively simple temple sat at the top of the staircase, a modest mass of stone and wood.

Glee spurring her upwards, the Matchbreaker dashed up the Iron Steps. Two women stood below the rectangular red torii at the entrance, arms crossed. In a proper shrine, the traditional roofed gate would symbolize the transition from the tainted world to the pure sanctity of what lay just beyond. Here, it marked the exact opposite.

“Who spit in your bean curd now?” she snapped in greeting.

“ _You_ , as always. You were supposed to return yesterday,” said Sister Ukhel, somehow managing to frown as she spat out a handful of jujube seeds.

“What took you so long?” demanded Sister Aditya. 

The Matchbreaker huffed, tossing Yangchen’s payment to Ukhel. Of all her sworn Sisters, these ones were her least favorite. “Nothing that concerns you,” the Matchbreaker said, smiling sweetly as she shouldered past them. 

Sanmani Temple was just as she left it. Blissfully bare, immaculately kept. Most of her Sisters were off completing their own missions, and the Matchbreaker made her way to her chambers without running into any of her brethren. Rolling her sore shoulders, she slid open the bamboo screen separating her bedroom from the corridor.

Her gaze swept over her neatly-made sleeping mat, her collection of rare weapons, the small incense shrine for her fathers, and a diminutive woman.

“Surprise!” 

“Chahaya!” The Matchbreaker’s face split into a grin as she slid across the polished wooden floorboards to embrace her closest friend. She released her sworn Sister, only to take her hands in hers.

“I saw you coming up the steps,” Chahaya said, spinning them around the room. “The Master told us she wanted to see you the moment you stepped through the gate, but I thought you’d appreciate something to eat first.”

The Matchbreaker nodded violently, and flopped down onto her sleeping mat. Chahaya laughed, pulling a wrapped bundle from her sleeves and joining her friend on the simple bedding. The Matchbreaker ripped apart the bamboo leaf, revealing a lump of still-warm sticky rice, fragrant with coconut milk and slathered with red bean paste.

“ _Oh Heaven above_ ,” she breathed out. She turned to Chahaya. “I love you.” She raised the offering to her mouth.

“Okunkohun!”

The Matchbreaker flinched, dropping the rice. She watched it as it slipped through her fingers, falling down, down, down. It finally landed on the floor, sullied. Dead. Chahaya’s hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide and stricken. She looked up at her companion in horror. Slowly, the Matchbreaker turned, eyes still on the ruined rice.

“ _Ukhel_. What did I say about calling me that?” she said, her voice softer than silk. “Chahayal, hand me a sword.”

“The Master wants you,” Ukhel drawled, unimpressed by her younger Sisters’ theatrics. “Now.”

The Matchbreaker’s gaze snapped from what might have been her lunch in another, more perfect world, and latched onto Ukhel’s unfeeling lizard eyes. “This is the most tragic moment of my life,” the Matchbreaker informed her in a dead whisper, unshed tears blurring her vision.

Ukhel rolled her eyes and swept down the hall. With a pained, trembling sigh, the Matchbreaker followed. The temple was rich with memories. After four years of training under the Master, she had committed to memory every scrape and stain along the walls, every knot and scratch in the wooden floorboards. She’d had recollections of her former home, once, but those fragmented memories had been swept away in favor of raw feeling. The Matchbreaker shuddered and moved on.

Ukhel slid open a screen door at the end of the hall, shoved the Matchbreaker inside, and closed it behind her. The small chamber was lit only by two faintly-glowing red lanterns, and the Matchbreaker could only just make out a familiar shape.

“I see your service to Yangchen is only half over.” A sigh. “His love for his daughters rivals my own. Almost.”

The Matchbreaker smiled and bowed. The Master was nothing if not sharp. She sank into a cushion across from her mentor and guardian, and folded her fingers over the hard wood of the table. The woman before her appeared in all respects to be a grandmother who should’ve returned to Heaven seven summers ago, but her sworn Daughters knew better. The entire Empire knew better. She had toppled even the greatest houses, spun their riches into ruin and rust.

“Eat,” said the Master, pushing a covered bowl and set of chopsticks towards her pupil. “War kills almost as much as empty stomachs.”

The Matchbreaker lifted the lid with a snort, revealing translucent noodles spun with paper-thin slices of carrot and onion. “I must return to Yangchen’s estate at the end of the month,” she said, slurping up a slippery mouthful.

“ _Must?_ ” A brow rose. “Daughter, there is nothing we _must_ do in life.”

“If his daughter dies, he’ll blame us,” said the Matchbreaker, shrugging. “And we already have enough enemies.”

“Most of whom are now dead.” The Master straightened. “But you’re right. We don’t need another vengeful noble marching up here with some piteous army.”

The Matchbreaker sucked in a breath. How many times had she descended the Iron Steps to convince a grieving general or merchant that battling them would only result in the death of more loved ones, and also that whoever they’d just killed had actually been an arse?

Of course, there’d been times diplomacy had utterly failed her. Her mouth twisted. It wasn’t as if the Matchbreaker felt remorse; she knew those she destroyed had demons swirling just under their skin. But killing people often seemed to create more trouble than it erased, especially when the malcontent niece or brother of one of her victims set out to avenge their loved one. The Matchbreaker considered snipping these volatile loose threads an unfortunate hassle, because she was not fond of eviscerating anyone but her original targets. 

“I won’t keep you in suspense,” said the Master, her words as gentle as the rare summer rains. “While you were away rescuing Khutulun, we received an informant.” Her gaze was as sharp as a spear. “We know those responsible for the Red Tragedy.”

The Matchbreaker went as rigid as a frozen corpse as a memory flashed through her, lightning-quick and arrow-sharp. _The Red Tragedy_. The reason she no longer went by any name but her title. She bit the inside of her cheek until it bled. She remembered the smell of the smoke, a glistening brush of blood across the stone floor, the feel of ash-blackened tears carving dark streaks down her face. The screams of the nuns as they burned. They’d built the Vermillion Pagoda as a testament to the Heavens, but seven soulless demons and a few torches were all it took to make their temple their tomb.

In the horrible, colorless months after the calamity, after she’d escaped to Sanmani Temple and begged the Sisters to allow her to join them, she’d had but one desire: to hunt down the monsters who’d wrenched everything good in her life and ground it all into dust underfoot. But after untold days of chasing wild tales in vain, she’d been forced to admit defeat. She would never know who’d ravaged her life. Until, it seemed, today.

“Truly?” the Matchbreaker forced out, her voice thick with shock.

The Master slid a thin scrap of paper across the table. _Names_. Names of the people who had brought her suffering. Names of the people to whom she would now bring death.

“I have two tasks for you,” said the Master. “The first is to confirm that these women and men are who our little informant says they are.” 

“And the second?” the Matchbreaker whispered, her mouth curved into the slightest of smiles. 

“...Is to snuff out each and every soul on this list.”

The Matchbreaker rose, and bowed low.

“With _pleasure_.”


	6. Chapter 6

They’d stopped to rest at the outskirts of a dilapidated village. The Matchbreaker had told her sworn Sisters they’d never reach their destination if they kept taking tea breaks every hundred paces, but her companions had ignored her and veered off into a grassy field. Fuming, the Matchbreaker had stomped after them, but to no avail. Now, she glared up at the slowly sinking sun. At this rate, she’d never get revenge. 

Seven Phoenix Guards. She closed her eyes, her fingers curling into fists. As the private forces of the most powerful nobles, Phoenix Guards were second in skill and rank only to those who served the Children of Heaven directly. Still, it took only _seven_ women and men to destroy everything and everyone she ever loved. And the moment she found proof, she’d return the favor a thousandfold. 

“What are you brooding about?” asked Aditya.

The Matchbreaker closed her eyes with a long-suffering sigh. _Why_ had the Master forced her to take the temple’s most aggravating Sisters with her? Sanmani Temple allowed its pupils to murder only once without being ordered to; now her single allotted revenge killing had already been ruined.

“ _Guess_ ,” she hissed, nearly spitting venom.

“Oh, right.” Splotchy color filled Aditya’s slender face. “Sorry.”

“Where exactly are you taking us?” Ukhel stepped between them, before her younger Sister could start punching Aditya’s nose in. “We’re been on the road for half a day, and you still haven’t told us.”

The Matchbreaker stared blankly at them. _Aggravating and stupid_. 

“The Keeper’s Tower,” she said finally. “If our little informant truly isn’t some vengeful noble’s lackey, and the monsters behind the Red Tragedy really are Phoenix Guards, then the official order summoning them from the border is there.”

The Matchbreaker pulled a whetstone from her satchel and set to sharpening her knives, hoping that her sworn Sisters would read her body language and leave her be. The Heavens must have smiled on her that day, because Ukhel eventually stepped away and helped Aditya boil a pot of tea over a small campfire.

Aristocrats seeking to curry imperial favor donated their Phoenix Guards to the military effort at the sacred borders. It was a gesture of great loyalty; soldiers, no matter their allegiance or rank, could not leave their posts without an official summons from the palace. And after all such orders were written and sent, they were collected and stored at the Keeper’s Tower. If some pitiful soul attempted to desert, all one had to do was call for the imperial edict relieving the poor fool. If no such command could be found, then the nearest village could expect a public execution the next day.

Aditya scooted near her, offering her a bowl of hawthorne and barley tea. The Matchbreaker ignored it.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Aditya whispered. “I know—”

“Don’t worry about it,” the Matchbreaker snapped, cutting her off. “Just hurry up and drink your stupid tea so we can get there before nightfall.”

Aditya drained her bowl in a single gulp.

“I’m ready,” she said, leaping to her feet with an awkward, apologetic smile. “I just want you to know, Okun—I mean, ah...well, my life is yours. I’m going to do whatever it takes to see this mission succeed.”

 _Heavenly arse_. What about her inspired people to swear their souls to her?

“Ugh.” The Matchbreaker snorted and stalked past her. “We’re assassins. We live and die for far better reasons than friendship. And we aren’t _friends_ , Aditya.”

She was right; the moon had fully usurped the sun by the time they reached the Keeper’s Tower. The Matchbreaker stared up at it, nervous anticipation trickling into her gut like sand. A masterpiece of nearly-seamless white marble and pale yellow wood, the pagoda rose from the dark soil like a perfect, serrated tooth. A single nun stood outside.

“We were not told to expect any visitors,” he said smoothly. “Who sent you?”

“We were not told to expect any prying nuns,” said the Matchbreaker. “ _Move_.”

“Only imperial officials may enter,” said the nun, pulling himself into his full, unimpressive height. 

The Matchbreaker stepped right up to him, eyes narrowed. She’d grown up honoring nuns as intermediaries between the mortal and divine planes, but she had neither the time nor patience to show the holy man the deference she knew he deserved.

“I swear to the Heavens that I will slit you from nose to navel,” she said, smiling sweetly. 

The nun blinked.

“How may I be of assistance?” he asked, stepping aside and ushering them within the Tower.

Aditya’s eyes went round as she stepped inside. The Keeper’s Tower was comprised on a single, vast room, its bursting bookshelves stretching towards the sky. Its staircase, cut straight from the walls, appeared to spiral up into oblivion. An assortment of silk cushions littered the chamber.

“We need every imperial summons relieving Phoenix guards four years ago,” said the Matchbreaker, turning around to face the nun. “If we find you’ve omitted even a single order…”

He scampered off, his gray robes flapping behind him. The sworn Sisters made themselves comfortable on a set of matching cushions. 

“Did you see Xin Sang?” Aditya asked stiffly, scanning the room.

“No,” said the Matchbreaker, rolling her eyes at her Sister’s feeble attempt to make conversation.

“Oh,” said Aditya, wilting. “Too bad.”

The nun returned then, saving them from more inane conversation. He carefully set a dishearteningly large chest before them and threw open the wooden lid with a puff of dust, revealing hundreds of neatly stacked scrolls.

“Leave us,” the Matchbreaker hissed, and the nun, releasing a relieved breath, did so.

She pulled the Master’s list from her satchel and spun around to face her sworn Sisters. Aditya and Ukhel groaned simultaneously and slid from their seats. They set to work, scouring each scroll for the names, for hints, for anything that might prove of even the slightest use. They’d been combing the contents of the chest for two hours when, just as Aditya was about to suggest a tea break, the Matchbreaker shot to her feet with an excited yelp. She’d found them. At long last, they were _hers_. 

Seven Phoenix Guards, matching those on the Master’s note. Seven guards, called from the sacred borders as one. Seven guards, who vanished soon after. Seven guards, who would soon be dead.

“We leave tonight.”

“No.” Ukhel rose to her feet with a sweep of her hand. “We need more proof than a single imperial edict.”

The Matchbreaker’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. Ever since she set foot upon the Iron Steps four years ago, Ukhel had opposed her every move. The woman before her had stopped her countless times before, but she would not do so now, or ever again.

“ _Fine_ ,” the Matchbreaker hissed, spinning towards the door. “Return home. I am going, with or without you.”

Aditya reached out and took hold of her shoulder. Her grip was gentle, yet firm.

“We’re still your Sisters,” she said, tilting her head. “We’ll always be with you.”

The Matchbreaker rolled her eyes, and shoved open the door.


	7. Chapter 7

They tracked the Phoenix Guards to a hamlet so insignificant it had no name. The village inn was little more than a hut slightly wider than its neighbors, with one room crammed with stinking sleeping mats, and another larger chamber set aside for everything else. The seven women and men whose blood would stain the Matchbreaker’s blades were the inn’s only inhabitants, besides the owner, a sweet elderly couple.

It was regrettable that after tonight, no one would ever stay with them ever again. There was no place to hide, except for in the vegetable garden, bare of anything besides chalky soil and suspicious heaps of refuse. The Matchbreaker and her sworn Sisters squatted in the dirt just outside the back door, lying in wait. Soon, the former Phoenix Guards would file into the large common for their evening meal, and soon, they would die.

Aditya shifted, twirling her curved club. “What happens after this?"

The Matchbreaker glanced at her, frowning. It was difficult to make out the woman’s face in the waning light. “Nothing,” she said.

“You don’t think you’ll find peace?"

“I will _never_ know peace,” the Matchbreaker snarled. “Not after what they did to me.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” said Ukhel, lips pressed into a thin line. “We’ve all lost just as much as you have. Sometimes more than. And still we make do. You—”

She cut herself off at the unmistakable slide of a sliding screen. Peering through the misshapen slats of the back door, the Matchbreaker watched seven figures seat themselves around a low, lopsided table, and begin to serve themselves a meager dinner. Laughter and the low murmur of talk filled the chamber and slipped outside.

Rising from the soil like smoke from a dying fire, the Matchbreaker pulled in a deep breath. She would never know peace, but after tonight, perhaps the spirits of those lost in the Red Tragedy would. She wiped sweat from her hands and griped her knives. And then she kicked the door in.

A man shrieked as the door slammed into him and tumbled backwards, sending sticky grains of wild rice flying. The Matchbreaker’s eyes maundered the room. These Phoenix Guards had not seen war in a long time. Entirely unprepared and unarmed, they stared up at the sworn Sisters with wide eyes.

“Do you know who we are?” she asked.

The man in blue staggered to his feet, hands on his knees. He held up trembling hands.

“Y-you’re Matchbreakers, but—”

“Then you know why we’ve come,” said Ukhel.

A woman in tattered green robes scrambled backwards towards the door.

“I have a _family_ ,” she whispered. 

“So did we,” said Aditya.

“Were you nomads?” The youngest of them swallowed. “We had no more choice than whoever we hurt. Forgive us.”

“We won’t,” snapped Ukhel. “We can’t.” She turned to the Matchbreaker. “They’re yours.”

“No.” The Matchbreaker smiled. “They’re _ours_.”

The man in blue leapt frantically towards the sliding doors. Ukhel hurled a knife. Its poisoned blade sank into the man’s throat, and he fell. A woman in red scrambled over to her gasping comrade.

“The Emperor is at fault for sending us to the border,” she gasped. “Take your rage to _him_.”

The Matchbreaker tipped back her head and laughed.

“You aren’t going to die for murdering innocent nomads,” she said, stepping towards the woman. “You’re going to die because of what you did four years ago.” The Matchbreaker brought a knife down in an arc, and the woman collapsed onto the man in blue. Blood bloomed like weeping scarlet blossoms across their robes. “You’re dying because of the Red Tragedy.”

They made short work of the Phoenix Guards, losing themselves in their loathing. The Sisters cut them down one after another, so swiftly it seemed as if it had been years since any of the Guards had even glanced at a sword. The women and men fell at their feet like thin, severed stalks of bamboo.

Panting, the Matchbreaker swept a smudge of blood from her brow. It had been so easy to end them. Almost too easy. She pulled in a breath and wiped her knives clean on the robes of the man nearest her. _No_. She’d seen the imperial summons herself, the official order sending them off to escort some noble to her death. The path the Phoenix Guards took would have taken them past the place the Matchbreaker lost everything, on the exact day she did.

And the sworn Sisters had taken care to investigate further on their journey here; the Guards’ master had left the mortal plane years before the Red Tragedy—they alone were to blame. And now they were dead. The Matchbreaker shoved down her rising worry and turned to her Sisters. She could allow herself to fret, but she’d never let Aditya and Ukhel see her agonize over this.

“Thank you,” said the Matchbreaker, and she meant it.

The sliding door slammed open. The Sisters spun towards it. A slight boy stood in the doorway, gasping. Trembling like a reed in the wind, his gaze fell on the woman in red. 

“What have you done?” His voice was hollow.

The Matchbreaker flinched. Another loose end she’d have to cut. But the boy looked as if he’d only just seen his thirteenth summer. She sheathed her knives and held up placating hands. “We—”

“Are monsters,” the boy roared. “Heroes only in name, demons who prey on the innocent and _weak_ . My mother was a _good_ woman.”

“I’m certain that, in some ways, she was.”

The boy’s breaths shuddered in and out of his slender body. A scream tearing itself from his throat, he lunged at the Matchbreaker. She struck him once, feeling the sick crunch of cartilage under her fist. He stumbled backwards, clawing blindly. The boy landed on his mother’s bleeding body, clutching his broken nose.

“Yes, we’re monsters,” said the Matchbreaker. “And so we know our kind when we see them.” The sworn Sisters turned as one towards the back door. “This was justice as much as it was revenge.”

They slipped from the room. Behind them, the boy wept tears of pain and confusion and rage. 

Rage most of all.


End file.
